


Pudgy

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Kid Fic, could be seen as ot4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But John just invites himself over to Teyla’s room more and more often.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pudgy

“I got it,” John says again.

Teyla doesn’t look convinced, but still she goes down the hallway, disappearing with one forlorn glance back.

“There,” John tells no one in particular. “That’s better.”

He’s got work. His office is about being available, findable should there be a problem that needs his attentions. Rodney makes lots of disparaging comments about graduate students and T.A. hours, but a few quick comments from Zelenka—who knows someone who knows someone who apparently _used_ Rodney’s few office hours, back when he was a T.A.—and the subject is changed. It’s not wrong, though. John can’t do a damned thing of value in his office until someone who isn’t him or his team walks through the door.

The papers slide the moment they’re put down, a cascade of black on white that looks starkly inappropriate in Teyla’s room. Like their owner, everything is golden, full of amber hues and rich, dark colors. It’s like a living Oriental rug, a riot of so much that, with a little distance, becomes a beautifully harmonious whole.

It’s a nice room to be in.

John settles on the pillow he mentally dubs as his, something that he’ll never actually _call_ a bean-bag chair but probably is. It’s comfortable, whatever the material, oddly supportive as John sprawls like a kid, piling up papers around him. Time and practice means he no longer dumps himself onto his back or ass, but as he reaches for the papers on the bed there’s a close moment when the pellets or beans or whatever it is shifts precariously out from under him, and it takes a quick shift of his hips to keep him centered.

Oddly, it’s like riding a horse. The way the back muscles tense, thighs and buttocks instantly centering under his shoulders, compacting his weight until he’s steady again.

“I wish we had horses here.” Rescuing his papers finally, John sets up three different piles and attacks. “Best thing to have, growing up. Gotta learn to take care of it, and riding’s always fun.”

More than fun, really. John’s always wanted his head up in the air, surveying everything from a height no human is supposed to reach on his own. Rock-climbing only whetted his appetite, really. It was always riding that gave John the closest sensation he could find to _moving_ through the air, the way the wind danced along his skin, the sense of pressure and _power_ bunching up around him, while he himself propelled along effortlessly.

“There’s gotta be something. We’ll find it.”

He’s able to work steadily for almost an hour before a thin, wavering cry interrupts him.

“My cue, I believe.”

Clambering to his feet, John abandons his papers without a second glance. Anything of importance is going in his datapad, anyway, which is tucked safely on Teyla’s table. The papers are just reams of white, patterns spreading over Teyla’s floor as he carefully scoops Torren up into his hands, and then close against his heart.

“Hello there,” he croons, ducking his head down until his neck hurts, so he can watch wet eyelids slit open in a baleful glare. “Did you have a good nap?”

Torren makes an unhappy noise, mouth pink and wet as it works—food, food, he demands imperiously—but lets his head rest against John’s chest, heavy and so warm it feels hot even through John’s shirt.

Both of them sigh.

Like always, John’s already fully into that instinctive sway before he even realizes he’s moving. It hurts his stomach, hold-over from yet another foreign object deciding it wants to jab inside of him—and really, Rodney’s right about the increasingly phallic nature of the Pegasus galaxy—but he ignores the pain. Torren is stretching carefully, little hands opening and closing in John’s shirt as he examines his new surroundings before giving a huff of contentment, eyes sliding shut once again.

“A pony,” John continues. He’s half-dancing his way around Teyla’s room, a slow, swaying waltz that follows the beat of his own heart, two-beats slower than the quick-quick flutter of Torren’s. “That’s what we need to get for you. Not until you’re older, ’course. But a big, fat pony with a shaggy mane that you can tug and pull without ever hurting the poor thing.”

Torren makes a sound that can only be described as _purring_ , and John takes that for agreement. He takes a lot of things as agreement, actually. Like Teyla’s repeatedly saying, “No, John, that is unnecessary.” To him, it was agreement and he just had to hang on until she saw it that way.

She’s not protesting as much, lately. None of them like downtime and his team has been rather ruefully watching John, certain he’s going to make a fast break towards something that’ll re-injure him yet _again_ , out of sheer bloody-minded boredom. But John just invites himself over to Teyla’s room more and more often.

Carefully, John rubs one big, broad thumb against Torren’s cheek: peach fuzz and innocence, like gum-drops. Just as sticky, too, since Torren drools like a champion.

“Or a dog,” he whispers. “We’ll get you a dog, something tough and strong to follow you around while your mom and your uncles are off saving the galaxy. A shepherd, maybe, something smart enough to know you’re the most important thing.”

The entire city is smitten with its newest addition, but none more than Teyla’s team. Everyone finds it amusing, how quickly three grown men can be reduced to hushed baby-talk and adoring, indulgent expressions. 

“Mine,” John says. “Well, ours, but yeah. Mine.”

“Keep talking like that and you’re gonna get propositions.”

John doesn’t bother looking up. He knows who it is; or rather, who _they_ are. Ronon is still leery in their presence, tidying up John’s piles with a grumbled comment that might include the word _slipping_ , although John’s not certain. He takes John’s bean bag with a grunt and starts moodily going over the papers. He’s trying to involve himself in the military, instead of just with John, more.

"You're implying I don't already?"

"Yes, but those aren't usually about the _result_ of your supposed assignations."

Supposed is right, although John doesn't say that aloud. He doesn't need to: his team knows exactly where he spends his nights and their absolute lack of discussion about it is like balm on a stinging burn. It just _is._ It's nice.

Rodney comes up as John does a neat pirouette, all warmth and solid, stolid muscle as he leans against John’s shoulder to rub Torren’s head and pudgy, scary-soft skin. “He sleeping?”

“Sort of. Mostly.” John doesn’t stop swaying, knowing Rodney will match his movements. It’s odd, how neither of them ever think about this. They just _do_ it, shift and flow. John’s been noticing it more. “He likes it when I talk to him.”

“Ah yes,” Rodney says. “The fatuous expression. How ever could I forget. Oh, look, now we’re glaring.”

John continues glaring. “You look at yourself in a mirror lately, McKay?”

“Nah.” The soft tone is incongruous, Rodney’s attention completely fixed to the tiny, fragile baby that’s cuddled close in John’s arms. “I don’t need to.”

John wants to blush and probably, when Rodney inevitably lets it slip in public, he will. But right now, Torren is half-sucking John’s shirt like there’s something worth finding there—and John’s careful to not let certain things line up, thanks—his bottom solid in the crook of John’s arm, and it’s easy, so easy, to stroke the wispy hair atop his head and just not think.

So he does.

“Hey, little guy,” Rodney croons and together, they wait for Teyla to return.


End file.
